


arc flash

by 26miledrive



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-17
Updated: 2012-01-17
Packaged: 2017-10-29 17:21:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/322291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/26miledrive/pseuds/26miledrive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>arc flash: the release of large amounts of heat and light energy at the point of a fault.</p>
            </blockquote>





	arc flash

**Author's Note:**

> set during the filming of 24/7. thanks to littlestclouds for the beta, and for the hand-holding! new pairing is new :D also thank you to antheia for answering a barrage of NYR questions via IM! <3!

**arc flash**

The night before the Rangers play the St. Louis Blues, Sean gets drunk in some bar on top of a hotel. Torts told him at practice the day before that he wasn't playing and ever since, there's been a cold, sick twist in his stomach that only liquor will burn away.

It's not a very busy bar, but it's a Wednesday, so maybe that's to be expected. He's used to New York, where every night is a whirl of people and noise and energy, a constant low buzz in the background. It bothers him when that's gone, when all he hears behind the noise is silence.

He's hung over the next morning, mostly because he didn't care enough not to be. The uneasy feeling from the night before has traveled up to his head, lodged itself in the rhythmic pounding behind his eyes. He wears sunglasses to the game and sits in the press box, wondering if anyone will notice, half-expecting the 24/7 cameras to come and find him for a quote.

The cameras don't come and the Rangers don't win, and Sean boards the plane with the ice lodged firmly in his stomach, blade-cut like the rink they leave behind.

* * *

Brodeur calls him when they're in Jersey to play the Devils.

Sean stares at the phone while it vibrates cheerfully on the table, the number _30_ staring him right in the face. Sean's never put Brodeur's name with his contact information, and he's yet to find a way to translate _my bad decision_ into an appropriate image, so his number will have to do.

He has no idea why Martin would be calling him in lieu of sending one of his usual curt text messages. It could be an accident, but Sean doesn't think it is.

The phone finally falls silent, displaying the message _missed call from 30_ , which makes him laugh. His fingers rub over the slick screen, thumb brushing over the _Call Back_ button. He wishes he could change that, just for Brodeur. Make it say something like _menace_ or _agitate_.

Sean's scratched that night, and spends the entire game staring straight at Brodeur from the press box. At some point he swears he sees Martin tip his chin up from across the ice, like he's looking for him, and Sean waves his arms in the air and laughs. He doesn't care if anyone sees him do it.

Sometimes there are benefits to everyone thinking you're an asshole.

After the game, he doesn't get a chance to ask Brodeur about the phone call. The first time he opens his mouth, Brodeur slaps him across the face and tells him to shut up -- in French, but Sean's heard _that_ enough by now that he knows what the words mean.

Brodeur fucks him up against the wall in the visitor's locker room -- like his is too sacred to defile -- and his fingers are rough, bruising, his voice harsh in Sean's ear. Sean doesn't know what the words are this time, but he's lost enough games to know what they mean.

He leaves with Brodeur's teeth marks in the back of his neck.

* * *

Sean's scratched in DC, which isn't a surprise, because apparently he's never playing goddamn hockey again for the New York fucking Rangers.

He drinks just enough liquor to know that what he's about to do is a bad idea, and then do it anyway. "What the fuck did you call me for?"

"I didn't call you."

Brodeur's voice is flat, emotionless.

"The fuck you didn't. I sat there and watched my phone ring."

"You must be mistaken. I have not called anyone today."

"Not _today_ , you asshole. A few days ago, in Jersey. I was going to ask you about it after the game, but you were so happy to see me, I didn't get a chance."

 _Even Brodeur's _breathing_ sounds annoyed. "Why does it matter? I got what I wanted."_

"Oh, you sweet talker, you. I was just wondering. You usually don't call me."

Brodeur's quiet breathing is starting to drive Sean mad, in a way he doesn't much like. "If you want to know so badly, you should have answered, _non_?"

Sean grins, and it feels tight, mean, like he's on the ice in front of Martin's net with the puck on his stick and a chip on his shoulder, trying to score. "I was _screening_ you. Your calls. Get it?"

Brodeur doesn't laugh, doesn't so much as chuckle or even _sound_ like he thought that was funny, and shuts him down like he so often does. "It was a mistake. I didn't want to call you."

"Hey, that sounds familiar! I let that goal in? Mistake, I didn't want to! I fucked my sister-in-law? My bad, how'd that happen? I'm sleeping with Sean Avery after I forgot to shake his hand -- "

"I didn't forget, Sean," Brodeur cuts in, and _now_ he sounds amused. "I didn't want to do that, either."

"Whatever. You're a fucking bastard." Sean falls back on his bed, dramatic, arms splayed at his sides. Like he's crucified by hockey, or more appropriately, by anonymous hotel beds in cities where he doesn't actually _play_ hockey.

Fuck, this is all stupid. He's tense, restless, and no amount of liquor is going to make him relax.

"Well, whatever -- hey, Marty, wanna see if you can get me off?"

There's a very long pause, and then Brodeur says, carefully, "I don't think so," and hangs up the phone.

 _And Brodeur, with the cock-block save on Avery._ Fuck.

Sean throws his phone across the room, and then gets himself off, sprawled on his bed with an arm thrown over his eyes to block out the light. He thinks about a few nights ago in the locker room, pinned to the wall, Brodeur's breath hot on his neck.

When it's over, he feels like the back of the net after a missed shot -- just as empty, just as tangled.

* * *

In the morning, he's having breakfast with Prust by the window when the 24/7 cameras suddenly stop by -- not for him, he knows that, he's done very little to entertain them during filming and he's pretty sure he's not going to get the chance -- and he's quiet while they interview Brandon, ask him about the team's loss the night before.

Sean looks out of the window, disengaged with the entire thing, ready for another trip to another city, for another game he's not going to play. Being scratched is bad enough, but being dragged around like an extra piece of luggage that gets shoved in the closet, just in case one of the other ones break, that's fucking pathetic.

He's got a life in New York. He could go back there and actually live it, instead of having breakfast in half-empty hotel restaurants with a camera crew who ask dumb questions, or calling the asshole goalie he sometimes fucks around with, asking for things and then being humiliated when he doesn't get them.

Prust tries to draw him into the conversation -- he's a friend as well as a teammate, he can clearly tell when Sean's in a mood -- and asks him something about the window, why he's wearing his sunglasses.

Sean's quiet for a moment, watches him from behind the dark lens of his glasses and wonders what he'd say if he knew about Brodeur. "Maybe there's something I don't want you to see."

Brandon tells him he has pretty eyes. It's a good exchange; teasing, friendly banter between teammates and friends. A sound bite.

It's also the truth.

* * *

They put him on waivers the day before New Year's Eve.

He's not surprised by that point, he hasn't played in the last nine games. He'll go back to New York, spend New Year's Eve at his bar and New Year's Day hung over on his couch, like the rest of North America.

Then it's probably back to the Whale for him. Which isn't bad, not in the grand scheme of things. The games are on weekends, for one, which leaves him time to do things other than shout obscenities while pushing a puck around with a stick. He's not the sort of man who ever gets bored.

He feels like the city he's adopted as his own; streets going every which way, ending in a thousand different places. It's too hard to pick just one and drive until the gas runs out.

On his way back to New York, he decides to take a detour. Maybe that's really his problem -- there's always some exit he can't resist, some seedy roadside attraction he hasn't yet learned how to ignore.

* * *

His seedy roadside attraction _du jour_ answers the door with a brief look of surprise, quickly overtaken by a familiar scowl. "Avery."

Sean snorts, he can't help it -- Brodeur has the oddest effect on him, he pisses him off but he also _cheers him up_ , and Sean has no idea how that works. Truthfully, it's less _cheer_ and more _mania_ , but whatever, it's still weird.

Martin's just...so _French-Canadian_. He's very dramatic. " _Brodeur_ ," Sean intones, sweeping into a low bow. He keeps his eyes locked on Brodeur's, though, doesn't lower his head -- he knows better than that. Martin will probably hit him and then Sean will end up with a Shanahan video and another rule named after him, about visiting goalies at home.

Brodeur doesn't look like he is particularly pleased to see him, but that's nothing new. He doesn't look particularly _surprised_ , either, but maybe that's a goalie thing -- anticipating the unexpected, acting like you saw that spin-o-rama coming all along, that sort of thing. "What are you doing here?"

"Just thought I'd stop by, wish my old friend happy holidays." The tension between them is immediate, all snapping heat and sparks like a livewire stretched thin, as dangerous as it ever is.

"I thought you were playing in the Winter Classic." Brodeur smiles like he just put fast-acting poison in a glass and served it to Sean as a cocktail. "Oh, oh. Don't tell me -- waivers again, is it? They should call you _Wavery_ , maybe, yes?" Brodeur laughs at his own joke, edged and cruel.

"I should punch you for that, you fucker."

"But you won't. You'll just wave your arms at me without actually taking a shot -- just like you do on the ice, when they actually let you play." Brodeur waves his arms mockingly, rolling his eyes. "Now tell me what you're doing here, or I'm closing the door."

Sean takes a step closer and stares up at Brodeur, wild-eyed, hands clenched at his sides. It feels like he's two seconds away from shattering into pieces, like all of that energy and electricity is burning him from the inside out. He reaches up and rubs at the back of his neck, at the marks Brodeur left that have faded into bruises, yellowed and sore when he presses against them.

Brodeur sucks in a breath and then nods, even though Sean hasn't said a word, and grabs him by the shirt to haul him inside. He slams the front door, then pushes Sean up against it and kisses him. And maybe that's why Sean comes here, why he can't seem to leave Brodeur alone -- the things Sean tries so hard to hide are the only ones Brodeur wants to see.

It doesn't matter. The inside of the house is cool and dark, Brodeur's hands familiar and rough. Sean leans his head back, closes his eyes, and finally lets himself fall apart.

* * *

In the morning, Martin cooks him breakfast.

He lectures Sean about a million things while he does it: why he's not supposed to just show up at Martin's house, how Sean should really learn to keep his mouth shut and maybe he'd get more ice time, how other goalies throw darts at his picture during Secret Goalie Meetings, et cetera, et cetera.

Sean ignores him, for the most part. He knows he needs to shut up more, and he absolutely believes it's more than _goalies_ that throw darts at his picture, but he almost says something about the _you can't just show up here_ thing. Namely, that Martin's wife is stupid if she thinks he's faithful -- once a cheater, always a cheater, and all that.

But he doesn't say that. This has nothing to do with her, for one thing, and it will just piss him off. Brodeur's not mad at the moment, the edges of his accent softer than Sean's ever heard it, and there doesn't seem to be a point in ruining his mood.

Besides, Sean really wants that omelet.

"I knew you had been scratched. I wanted to know if you were playing."

Startled, Sean looks up from his coffee -- Martin is still facing the stove, his back to Sean, apparently speaking nonsense or else Sean just slept through a conversation. "Huh?"

"That's why I called you, before the game. To find out if you were playing or not." Martin still won't turn around, there's a tense set to his shoulders that wasn't there a minute ago.

Sean feels like he's missing something, here, but before he can ask, Martin says quietly, "It shouldn't matter, Sean. If you're there or not."

Oh.

"Does it matter, Martin?" The words are out before he can stop them, more weight to them than there should be, and he doesn't like how he feels waiting for the answer -- breathless like his first NHL game, standing in the tunnel and poised to put his skates on the ice.

Martin turns around, plate in hand, and looks at him across the kitchen. It's not a look Sean's used to; there's nothing guarded about it, there's no mask to be seen. Maybe Brodeur is tired of hiding, too. Maybe they're more alike than either of them like to think.

God help them, if that's true.

Brodeur walks over and puts the plate in front of Sean, but he doesn't move away. He stands too close, invading his space in a way Sean usually does to _him_ , and reaches out to put his hand on the back of Sean's neck. His fingers press against the fresh bites there, the old bruises. "Eat your omelet."

It's not an answer, but it's enough.


End file.
